Buona Cura
by Akatsume
Summary: Injured and tired, ex-soldier Ludwig returns to his home post WWII. His new Italian maid brings light into his attic and his heart. Gerita. historical AU.


AN: Sooo, long fic is long. This was my first Hetalia fic. Retrospectively, its not at all historically correct with how Feliciano is still with Mussolini cause Italy withdrew from the stuff and things and yeah... well. Just wave your arms around and pretend it happened, kay? :D Ummhmm, language translations not provided because I'm an ass, but I'll throw in footnotes later if I've got the will and the time. They aren't essential to the plot at all, but translating Lovino's lines might make you laugh and translating Feliciano's lines might make you go 'awww'. So there's the incentive. Wahaha.

* * *

><p>On the evening of December 31st, 1945, a tall German man examined himself in the polished windowpane of his room in the Hiroshima Red Cross Hospital. The sheets lay neat and flat over his small cot, where he had left an abnormally sized indent from resting inert for the past five months. His belongings, contained in a trunk no taller than his thigh, sat by the doorway with the handle upturned. He could seek solace in the constraints of any uniform, but the Cossack and high collar of his vestments clung in unfamiliar patterns on his body. His hand wished to rub the old nock on his calf where high boots once laced, and instead only soft black pants lay. Ludwig resisted. At the very least, his sensible cleric's shoes could contain the same shine of polished black leather. The uniform began to feel more correct when he tied the simple black sash about his waist, and left a majority of the thirty-three buttons undone up to his stomach. He adjusted once the white tab of his collar, ensuring straightness, before surveying his room once more.<p>

The same painting hung over his bed for those five months; he now bid farewell to the image of Christ, his head tilted in humility and his hands filled with an offering of light. Ludwig had not prayed in eleven years, and the sight unnerved him.

"Kleinsorge-shisai? Pardon the interruption."

"Kiku-sensei. Do not concern yourself. I am only preparing to be discharged from your care."

He responded in Japanese out of courtesy; the Doctor's German, he discovered, was limited, and his long residence in Japan had made him fluent enough in the language. Doctor Kiku often teased him for his rough, guttural treatment of the delicate Japanese syllables.

"I am pleased to report that your final physical revealed no further medical concerns enough for hospitalization. Please pay attention to your energy."

Ludwig's stomach gave a faint clench at the words. They carried no weight of inflection, as the Japanese way dictated, but he knew the implication and the underlying concern. Despite the extensive bed rest, the radiation might have made him too weak to travel. Ludwig would have to see if he could manage tonight's train ride to the harbor, where his boat to China departed the following morning.

"I appreciate your concern. I will care for myself well. Thank you for your service, Kiku-sensei."

"_Gute fahrt_, Father Kleinsorge."

He smiled at the oddly gentle German words. The Japanese simply were not suited to speak his native language. With a brief bow, he departed the hospital for the local station, hand checking over his breast pocket for the ticket.

* * *

><p>The New Year's lanterns and string lights illumined the night, and it seemed not one soul had yet gone home from the festivities. Floral yukata and light kimono caught colors here and there; blue birds, green bamboo, violet flowers, soft pink sakura and red ocean waves. Bits of Japanese chatter tugged at his ears as well, exclamations, observations, greetings and goodbyes. He had truly enjoyed his stay here, despite the unfortunate circumstances. The crowd created a polite path for him as he walked, even though years of practice concealed his old limp. Then again, his presence as a foreigner made him a local anomaly, and most residents knew him or knew of him and his stay at the hospital. He thanked some of them, and said goodbye to the few he had spoken to once or twice. One small girl who had taken a shine to him presented a fistful of little rice candies. He gave her a little smile and watched as she fled shyly.<p>

The train station provided bleak contrast to the festival atmosphere. His train would take him from Hiroshima, in the south of Honshu, to the upper tip by Hokkaido, where his boat left port. Ludwig slept, finding ample seat space in the empty car to lie down.

* * *

><p>True to Kiku's prediction, the travel had begun to take its toll on Ludwig's constitution. Several days worth of travel had taken him as far as Leningrad, and his Russian, through bitter circumstances, proved proficient enough to procure him another ticket into Eastern Europe. His last destination was, hopefully, his father's home just outside of Hamburg, along the Elbe. As he soon discovered, even dirty communists would not bother to question a holy man so harshly, and to his relief, the passage into torn Germany proved easier than anticipated. He arrived quite exhausted, and his leg began to ache to where his limp worsened notably.<p>

He found the door unlocked; not unusual if his father had been expecting him. Ludwig had written before leaving Hiroshima. What was unusual was that his own letter, unopened, sat beside another unopened envelope on his father's entry. One addressed from him, one addressed to him. He saved the letter from himself, withholding questions that this new document may answer. His father would have been fifty-two in March. His father died over a month ago of unknown medical complications. Ludwig suspected that his father's war injuries from the first Great War played a part. He felt so much like his father now, bound by old military secrets and crippled by old wounds that would never ever heal. He sat at the same kitchen table his father had, and just as his father wept for his deceased wife in 1918, so Ludwig wept.

Gilbert came to visit the following morning, bringing with him his two young daughters and wife. He brought also the deed to their parent's home. Ludwig at first declined, reasoning that Gilbert's growing family needed the space, but Gilbert's pride disallowed him to take 'father's handouts'. He also pointed out that Ludwig had no place to stay otherwise. Ludwig unpacked his trunk that night, realizing with classic pragmatics that he required a housekeeper to do what his battered body no longer could. The search would begin the following morning, on January the 15th, 1946.

* * *

><p>Feliciano Vargas wasted no time on January 17th, 1946. He packed his bags as quickly as possible after running home from the agency. They decided to reassign him once again, due to his unusual talents, but the Italian didn't mind one bit. Things had turned bitter with Lovino recently. He wanted an excuse to leave.<p>

The military found little use for him once his courier duties became unnecessary. The axis lost, and his lack of both skill and enthusiasm in combat made any leftover guard jobs unavailable. The local post seemed to be the only place that would hire him, and he often completed odd jobs for a freelance agency nearby. Recently, they'd received a listing from a man in Hamburg seeking a housekeeper. Feliciano's courier duties during the war had required he be educated in at least four languages, and German was his most fluent beside his own. Besides that, family circumstances prevented him from returning to Italy after V.E day. He'd been stuck in Germany after the Battle of the Bulge, reassigned and shifted here and there as needed. As a soldier, the government found him plainly incompetent, but considering his natural effluence and unassuming manner, delivering secret messages proved a lucrative talent.

What drew him to this particular job, however, was his innate domestic skill. He was certain that whatever persona awaited him behind that intimidating oak door he could charm and serve with Italian grace. He dropped the knocker thrice, observing the lion's head and the wing-like decorations carved into the dark, solid wood. Having lived among the German people for several months now, Feliciano had some idea of their general character. Father Kleinsorge, as his name appeared on the roster, would likely be a docile and gracious man of the cloth.

Felix, as he allowed the German people to call him, knew that he shocked many with his dark appearance. His stature remained comparatively small, and if he wore a sour expression he could frighten with his dark eyes and caramel skin. Germans tended to look down on him like a rat, though it had been worse during the Aryan campaign. Thus Feliciano learned to be always polite, always gracious, and alleviate any causes of hatred for him by the sheer shining virtue of his smile. Though he was accustomed to silence or an unsure gaze in response, the man he greeted at the door smiled spoke with him.

"Are you that man's new housekeeper?" he asked, gesturing to the house. Feliciano affirmed, wondering who this person could be.

"Ah, I'm his brother Gilbert. I was dropping off his dogs. Pleased to meet you, Felix. I must warn you not to ask too many questions of him," he jested, though the Italian felt some truth in his suggestion. Gilbert was tall, fair and sharp, with eyes that shone of mischief and intelligence. Feliciano felt he could grow to like him in time. "Come in, go and see my brother. I was just leaving."

He felt strange walking unaccompanied into the house. A neat pair of shoes by the door clued him in to remove his own.

"Hallo? Father Kleinsorge? _Entschuldigung sie bitte_."

"Come in, I am in the kitchen."

The voice was not gentle, as Felix hoped, but very gruff. He felt compelled to obey by the sheer commanding force of that deep, growling German. His own German tended to lilt and trill too much, and true speakers would not enjoy conversing for long. Their tolerance for foreigners in this country, still, was low. The fact that Gilbert accepted him and asked no questions set him somewhat at ease.

Feliciano set his briefcase down besides the landing and wiggled his stocking-feet against the hardwood as he walked.

"This way," the voice called, leading him through the main room and into the next. The voice had misled him. This man was simply beautiful.

He sat in simple black vestments, his collar a tab of white against his throat, legs impossibly long off the edge of his seat. His hair was light gold, slicked back against his scalp, and two eyes the color of ice pinned him against the wall. Felix did not think he could approach even if asked; Father Kleinsorge looked as remotely beautiful as a winter sunrise.

"Ah, _Hallo_. Mister Gilbert let me in," he said, feeling small and dirty beside this pale god. He closed his eyes amicably, offering a classically dazzling smile. The priest remained stoic.

"Might I have your name?"

"Ah, yes, I am Feliciano Vargas," he said, feeling stupid for not introducing himself. When a single blonde brow lifted, the Italian faltered. "Er, well, most people call me Felix."

"_Ja_," the German began, eyes turning away to look through the kitchen window. His profile proved just as stunning. "I am Father Kleinsorge."

Felix nodded dumbly, finding the rhythm of the conversation ebbing quickly.

"Oh, your brother said you had some dogs?" he questioned, wincing at both his lilting German and the priest's darkening brow.

"My father's. The dogs are outside."

Felix knew better than to ask, just as Gilbert prescribed.

"_Si, si._ So, what would you have me do first, Father?"

He seemed to recoil faintly at the title, much to Felix's dismay.

"Ah, if you could assist me with the attic this evening. _Bitte."_

Felix observed the subtle ripple of muscle beneath the black vestments, unable to look away when the German rose. He couldn't understand at that moment why a man with such a well-conditioned physique would need his help. Kleinsorge had no reason to be so muscular; it was practically a sin for him to look that way. Yet, only a moment later, Feliciano understood as he watched the priest's uneven steps towards the baluster. He must have been injured. He must have been injured very badly, to be so disabled now. Felix followed his halting gait up the stairs, patient with his slower pace. Once he thought he heard a small gasp of pain, but the form before him hardly paused.

"I would like to dust up here. I will take inventory of a few things," he said simply, gesturing to the small bin of dust rags and feathers. Feliciano took two rags downstairs to moisten them and set about wiping whatever antiquated furniture remained. The priest shuffled a few boxes about, dissecting one, and another, and removing a few items from each. Mostly photographs and little curios for display, Felix noted. A sneeze seized his thoughts as wayward dust collected in his nose.

"There is a window on the eastern side, if you can move the boxes," the priest informed him, though Felix noted that there was no overt instruction in his words. True enough, after a brief shuffle, he discovered the old window. The light it brought was welcome; the rectangular ray a dimensional entity of brightness, swirling with motes as they danced in and out of the rectangular halo. He undid the latches and pushed, though in vain. Age had sealed the pane. A faint grunt of pain escaped him as the frame bit into his fingers with force. No, two tries and it still would not open.

"_Dummkopf, davonkommen!"_

Felix flinched at the voice, harsh in his ear. When had the priest moved from the other side of the attic? He stepped aside obediently, allowing the German to approach the window. His shoulder blades flexed out from the muscles of his back, arms rippling with the sudden display, and the window creaked once before sliding up. One thin thread of golden hair fell forward, tickling the fine line of his nose; the priest tamed it back with a motion of his large hand. The sudden rush of cooler air made him aware of the heat on his cheeks.

"_Danke,"_ he murmured, suddenly humiliated. He'd never heard such rudeness from a holy man!

"_Es ist mir egal."_

Felix watched him limp across the room, wondering at his duality of strength and frailty. It was almost as if he was trying to hide his weakness. It occurred to Felix that he himself may be a source of shame to the Father, a physical sign that he could not live with his strength alone. He decided not to ask, once more, and simply set about his cleaning.

* * *

><p>"Your room is down here. It once was Gilbert's. I'm staying right next to you," he said, leading the Italian to his humble chambers. An oak-framed double bed dominated the back wall, with a magnificent hand-carved headboard depicting the bank of the Elbe.<p>

"_Che bello!"_ he said unthinkingly, taking a few numb steps into the room. The walls were an austere sort of olive, but it caught the light nicely and gave the room clean radiance. In addition to the bed, a matching dresser posed on the opposite wall, complete with a rounded vanity mirror and engraved glass. He found a small closet door beside that, and a plush throw rug shielding his toes from the cold hardwood. "Ah, forgive the Italian. It's so beautiful, Father!"

"_Es is nichts_," he replied, though his voice sounded warmer than before. "Gilbert cleaned it for you the other day. He finally took all those old keepsakes home, that idiot."

"Where does he live now?"

"He's got a wife and kids."

"Ah, I see. Is this house yours then?"

"No. _Mein vater._ He died."

Felix sorely regretted ignoring Gilbert's warning just then.

"_Das ist aber schade_," he replied sincerely, offering a small, twisting frown in sympathy.

The priest waved him off.

"I seek no sympathy. What is done is done."

Feliciano allowed a moment of silence, though he did not specify the cause. He paid respects to the spirit of the house, quietly, not wanting to offend the man before him.

"Ve, how about pasta tonight?"

The German looked up, the cloth of his cassock swirling from the sudden turn.

"_Was?_ Pasta?"

"Pasta~! Pasta is the most delicious of Italian foods! I would be delighted to prepare supper for us tonight,_ Prete_! Ah, pardon the Italian, I am excited."

The old window in the attic remained unblocked. Ludwig had attempted to shut it, but a small margin remained open near the bottom, as though the pane were unwilling to become sealed again. He allowed the draft and the light to enter, not minding the extra chill for the illumination. The sun's fading glow warmed the old attic with peach beams as the pair ate downstairs. Feliciano's laughter rung along the banisters and seeped up through the floorboards, as no noise had in years.

* * *

><p>Father Kleinsorge was early to rise, as usual, though this morning he found that his body would not oblige him to move. He waited calmly, trying to lift first digits and then arms, only to be wracked with stiffness and pain. No doubt an effect on his musculature from the radiation. He pushed those memories aside before they could consume him, fresh as they were, and instead listened patiently for Feliciano. Ah, the faint clatter of dishes, a sizzle of eggs. No doubt the Italian would come to wake him soon. And yes, footsteps in the hall.<p>

"Felix?"

"Ah, _Guten Morgen,_ Father!"

Felix bypassed his prone form completely, instead moving to the curtains and letting in the sun.

"Felix, ah, it seems I cannot—"

The Italian slowed, blinking at him curiously.

"Ve? Are your injuries acting up, Father? Ah, I see. Please, try to sit up with me."

Small hands pushed against his back, levering him up until Feliciano could prop pillows behind him. Ludwig leaned back, expecting plush cloth.

"Hehe! Father, I can't very well help your soreness if you're crushing me!"

Despite the pain of movement, he jerked his torso forward in surprise. Felix stilled him with a hand on each shoulder, fingers digging in pleasured pain to seek the knots in his muscles.

"You Italians have no sense of proprie—ah."

A brief snicker served as Felix's response. Soon after, Ludwig ceased his complaints and allowed the Italian to work, secretly enjoying those little warm palms as they slid over the material of his pajamas. No one had touched him with friendliness in so long. The feeling was foreign and delightful. The Italian moved around to work on his thighs, even as Ludwig's cheeks heated in protest. Felix felt the curiosity well up within him; he kept his tone light and casual as he spoke.

"Ve~, Father? How did you get that limp in your left leg?"

"Bullet."

"Ve, um, what about that bump in your back?"

"Bullet. And the one in my ribs as well."

"Oh, I see."

Clearly the Father had not told him a great deal about himself. Still, Feliciano was not surprised to hear that the bullets remained in his body. Oftentimes, field surgeons would only dress the wound and compress for bleeding while they had the time. Removal could occur at any later date, provided the bullet was not lodged somewhere fatal. Still, as he approached the scarred knee, revealed by the Father's sleeping shorts, he couldn't stem his curiosity. Perhaps he could clean the attic once more, during the Father's rest hour.

* * *

><p>Aster had taken a particular shine to him, Felix discovered. The retriever followed him all throughout the lunch hour and around the house as he cleaned.<p>

"Aster, come!"

Her golden coat rolled and shone over the motions of her strong legs on the stairs. Feliciano hoped that the dog's bounding wouldn't wake the priest.

Feliciano stepped into the square of light on the floor, his legs lit to the knees by the inlet from the lonely window. The chill caught his knuckles, made them stiff, but he only rubbed them in his pockets to warm them again. Each box remained as it had been, new piles already collecting fine dusts. He disregarded most of them, having sorted through many the day before. No, he was interested in the great trunk at the end of the room, the one item that he had not needed to dust yesterday. Kleinsorge must have used it upon coming home.

Aster set about coating her nose in spider webs as Felix approached the chest. The iron filigree shone in the cool light from the window, beckoning him to open it. The inside of the chest shone as well, he discovered, lifting the lid as quietly as he could. Black fabric, and on the very top, an iron cross medallion on a silver chain. The sight did not shock him as it might have another. No, Feliciano knew the symbols of war, and in fact wore many of them on his diplomatic courier's missions. The symbol did not hold as much evil for him. He took it, feeling the cold against his breast beneath his shirt. Beneath the cross, the peaked cap of the SS eagle, still in clean black. He set this aside, revealing the neatly folded SS uniform beneath it. The jacket still had every badge and trimming, and even the armband remained in blazing crimson and white, stark in the cozy attic. Feliciano peeked beneath the black folded layer only to find a green field jacket, slightly dusky and well-worn. He took this as well, replacing all other articles with utmost care. Unable to resist, he held the collar to his nose. Slightly acrid, smelling of sweat and fear, but beneath it the warm, musky scent of woodlands and the Father himself. He draped the jacket across his arm and called Aster downstairs, intending to stash the article in the unused closet by his dresser. The scent lingered in his nose and with it an addiction. Feliciano wondered what the Father truly smelled like, without the overtones of despair. The jacket held only a teasing trace of that elusive scent, which he captured once more before stowing it in his room. The cross had warmed to his skin, just as, he supposed, it had warmed to the priest's long ago.

* * *

><p>Feliciano had not visited the attic in over a month, though he still wore the cross and had succumbed to sleeping with the jacket. He observed the Father's health deteriorate and improve intermittently, remaining faithful and helpful. Truthfully, he hadn't thought of his old home since arriving here. He fit in so nicely in this antiquated house, it was as though the walls themselves welcomed him. The Father, however, had begun to grow sour. Feliciano suspected that his health depressed him, made him lash out, and considering that his temper escalated when his leg acted up, the hypothesis could not be far off. Still, the Italian, as most of his people, thrived on love, and the harshness brought with it insecurity and sadness to Feliciano's life as well. He rarely spoke to anyone at the market, and most Germans would not speak with him regardless. In this, he cherished the Father and his hospitality. The thought of losing the man who was currently his only friend seemed too cruel. Just this morning he nearly broke a vase cleaning as a thought assaulted him: he did not know the Father's first name. He'd simply never mentioned it. The realization depressed him, and evidently his lack of cheer was evident when he delivered the priest his lunch.<p>

"Has your cat died?" the German asked, devoid of humor yet dry enough to make the Italian huff a small laugh.

"Ve, no. Apologies, Father. I'll try to cheer up."

"Have I worked you too hard? Take today, if you wish. You cleaned this morning already, there isn't much more to be done. Go into town, get some air."

"I'd rather stay with you." The words came instinctively, uncensored, and Feliciano rushed to explain. "I mean, what would happen if you should need me? I can't go."

He bit his tongue again, realizing that his words might incite a temper should the priest misinterpret him. Thankfully, his leg appeared at peace today.

"I see. I may be well enough to walk today."

The implication was slow to fruit for Feliciano.

"Oh, _che magnifico!_ I heard just this morning on the radio that the Hamburg Philharmonic is performing Shostakovich tonight!_ Prete,_ may we?"

To his utter stupefaction, the tiniest of smiles tilted into Father Kleinsorge's fine lips.

"I suppose."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you're alright to walk today, Father?"<p>

The first spring day graced them that afternoon, with a parting of clouds and slight warmth. Ludwig felt completely at ease this day, with his symptoms lax and his spirits high.

"Quite sure."

The wide Elbe rushed in the distance, sound muted by trees and verdant undergrowth. The German had forgotten the outside world, the taste of air; he had not left the house since arriving two months ago. Feliciano substituted the sun when the clouds eclipsed it. His pulsar smile seemed even more radiant against the open sky, his skin a shimmering caramel against the light; the priest allowed himself a small sense of pride for correcting the Italian's foul mood.

"Ve, ve, _prete_! You've never told me your name!"

"Nonsense, Felix. I'm Father Kleinsorge."

"What Kleinsorge?"

The truth stared him down here, stared at him like hidden eyes in the bloody snow along with Felix's wide chocolate gaze. He could not tell another lie. This man knew no truths about him except what he had divulged. His entire name and occupation were falsehoods.

"Ludwig."

"Ludwig." The Italian repeated his name; once for practice, once in thought, thrice to address him. "Ludwig is such a strong name! Ve~! Ludwig!"

No-one had called him that. Only Gilbert and his father. Feliciano locked their elbows, his hand coming up to rest on the German's forearm. They might have been good friends, walking that way.

"You Italians have no sense of propriety," he grumbled, though the protest lacked enthusiasm. Felix only giggled, running ahead through the grass, digits trailing off of Ludwig's arm. The wind caressed him, threading breezy fingers through his auburn hair and ruffling his jacket affectionately, blades of green dancing over his boots. He pressed his palm to his breast, printing against the cross through his shirt. Ludwig stood, still and black, Cossack blustering with the sudden zephyrs. Felix realized then that it was not silver and ice he'd seen that morning, not as his hair shone gold in the sun and his eyes looked on with the warmth of summer seas. The color reminded him of the shallow bay by his childhood home, always cerulean in the southern sun. He couldn't stop his beaming then, neither his sudden bout of laughter as he ran back to Ludwig.

"Ludwig is smiling."

Ludwig blushed.

* * *

><p>His energy lasted the whole two miles to Hamburg, prompting him to, on occasion, literally run circles around Ludwig.<p>

"Ve~! I'm so excited, Ludwig! I haven't been to the symphony since I was young!"

"You're still young," he replied, though Felix heard the breathy chuckle beneath it.

"Feh! I'm fully nineteen, _Prete_! You can't be that much older than me!"

"Oh?"

Felix paused, twisting his nose at the German.

"Why did you say it like that? You aren't secretly forty-five are you?"

"No, Felix, only twenty-eight."

"_Waaas_? How can you be nearly thirty!"

For the first time, Feliciano heard Ludwig laugh.

* * *

><p>Ludwig had not been to the symphony in many years, either. Feliciano calmed down enough to sit quietly in the hall, only a quiet gasp or excited wriggle escaping him during particularly evocative strains of Shostakovich. Ludwig saw the faint shine of tears in his eyes during the third movement, and he was one of the first to ovate and the first to stand.<p>

"_Che bello! Magnifico_! Ludwig, wasn't it beautiful?"

"Ja, Felix. Come, before the night becomes too dark to see our way."

"Ve~ Ludwig!" Feliciano exclaimed, stumbling happily out onto the street behind the fluid steps of his lofty companion. "Why are you in such a hurry?"

"Felix! Don't-!"

"Ah! If it isn't the man himself!"

Ludwig paused, lips sealed into a clean line of disapproval. The Italian gave him a look of surprise as the stranger approached, clapping a friendly hand over Ludwig's dark shoulder.

"I heard you were discharged from Japan! No effects from the bomb, I hope. Doing well, then?"

Feliciano observed, still a few feet away. He was an older man, perhaps fifty, dressed in a neat suit. He stood in the same manner of military regality Felix had seen time and again during the war, and the faint scar line over his jaw spoke volumes. So, more secrets from the attic trunk.

"How's that old leg treating you?"

"Captain, please. I am here with a guest and would rather not discuss it."

Both men cast cool blue eyes on Feliciano. He resisted squirming.

"Ah, well. It was good luck to see you here, actually. I have some gifts from the field."

Ludwig accepted the parcel of twine and brown paper, brows lifting higher on the fine slope of his forehead.

"_Danke._ If you'll excuse me. My friend and I would prefer to make it back before the sun fully sets."

"Ludwig! Don't tell me you've been walking on that bum leg of yours! For God's sake man, take a car! I'll have my driver swing you by."

Ludwig cast an apologetic look to Felix, eyes downcast. The Italian nodded quietly, offering a small smile. He stepped closer to his German friend, sensing that his mood was deteriorating quickly.

They spent the short ride in silence.

* * *

><p>Ludwig took the parcel back to his bedroom immediately, leaving Feliciano by the door, confused and insecure. Perhaps the German was mad again. A faint frown pulled at his mouth while he removed his shoes. He dropped his second slipper in shock. Ludwig took off his shoes before entering the house, religiously. He'd been transferred from Japan. The uniforms again, and the cross cold on his breast. Now the pieces fell to better sense, made the picture larger. Felix nearly stormed down the hallway, not in anger, but some kind of passion overtook him; he had to know. How many things had been lies?<p>

"You're not a priest, are you?"

Ludwig's hands paused on the last button of his shirt, forming a visual hiatus to the vertical gash of torso above it. He frowned at Feliciano.

"You could knock, also. And I've held other jobs in the past year."

"What were they? Why did you quit?"

"My boss was being… unreasonable."

"Don't! Don't do that!" He sputtered, pacing further into the room. "Tell me the truth. You act as though I'm not capable of knowing!"

Ludwig regarded him seriously, craning his head down to look at the petite Italian.

"What proof have you given of your capability?"

He pulled the cross from beneath his shirt.

"I worked as a courier for Mussolini. I worked for three years. I was fifteen. Only last year I fought at Ardennes."

"That battle ended only a few months ago."

"I was disallowed to return home. I've stayed in Germany ever since."

Ludwig paused, an old, cold pain in his eyes.

"_Mein Gott._ Nineteen, you said."

"You owe me the truth."

He sighed suddenly, running a hand back through his hair, taming the few loosened strands away from his face. Feliciano saw the ripple and crinkle at his waist when he bent over the dresser where the package lay, untouched.

"You were at Hiroshima. You—you must have been sick. Is that why?"

"Open this for me."

Feliciano approached carefully, taking the package to the bed. He sat on the coverlet, watching as Ludwig touched his forehead to the dresser mirror, looking back through his reflection. The twine came loose, and the paper after. Felix opened the box.

"There are some photographs, Ludwig. A few small badges. A letter."

"Look at the photos."

"Ludwig—"

"Look!"

Feliciano started at the sudden outburst, catching Ludwig's guilty flinch. He took the small Polaroid stack from the box. First, a group photo. He scanned the rows of young soldiers, looking for Ludwig's face. Ah, there. He wouldn't have been more than twenty, judging by the youth corps outfit. He smiled in the photograph, his cheeks youthful and high, his shoulders somehow stronger and broader. Feliciano suppressed the sudden flutter in his chest at the beauty of that smile, the look of innocence.

"Ludwig is so handsome," he said quietly, unsure if he intended the German to hear. He gave no response, regardless, only watching through the mirror.

Various photos now, photos of friends at training camp, photos of the squadron, photos of the cabin-mates. Photos of the squad-leaders, then the commanders, then the generals, Ludwig moving up in rank and age by each; small lines appearing on his face, his smile vanishing in time. Felix saw the years drain by, saw the horrors take their toll on him. Lastly, a Kodachrome of only two men; the man from the theater, looking young and stark and serious in the dramatic black SS uniform, the shining eagle on his cap and the blood-red band on his arm. Ludwig stood beside him, crisp and stoic, all clean lines and sharp angles down to the shadow at his temple. He looked unbelievably handsome, he looked powerful and youthful and enigmatic. Feliciano could have fallen in love with this photo, unshaken as he was by the sight of the infamous uniforms. He had seen many during his courier years. Those pale, sharp eyes watched him from the photo, and as he turned his head up, from the mirror. This was Ludwig. Ludwig the stoic priest, Ludwig the Nazi Soldier, Ludwig the injured veteran. The Ludwig he had grown to know and care for these past few months.

"You don't frighten me, you know. It's only your grin that's frightening, Ludwig."

The lean body visibly sagged in relief.

"My name isn't Kleinsorge. I cannot tell you my real surname. But I was truthful about the rest."

"You don't have to tell it all now."

"I thought you might be upset."

"Your leg is bothering you again."

"_Ja." _

Felix patted the bedspread beside him, replacing the photo stack carefully. The large German hobbled over gratefully, still half-clad in his button-down shirt and black slacks.

"Take that off, you look ridiculous," he muttered, though Feliciano didn't wait for Ludwig to heed his request and slid his hands under the collar to slip it over the German's arms. His skin was warm porcelain, hot and smooth, sometimes marbled with scar tissue. Felix ran his fingers over every mark, feeling the textural contrast and the warmth in an entirely selfish gesture. At last he gave those broad shoulders a squeeze and slid from the coverlet to kneel before Ludwig's seated form. A pang of longing welled up at the sight of the German, sitting half-clad and looking anxiously downward as Felix laid a hand on his thigh. Instead he ground his thumb into a hollow by the injured kneecap, a spot that often suffered from creaking stiffness. His fingers played at the sensitive popliteal hollow, teasing the firm tendons as his palms and thumbs continued their therapeutic press.

"You looked in my trunk, didn't you?"

Felix smiled, completely unapologetic.

"I sleep in your old jacket. It's warm when the room becomes drafty."

"_Ja, _that side of the house faces the wind most often. I could move you, if you like."

"I won't sleep in your father's room. The only other room I would dare sleep in is yours, and I doubt you would allow me to."

In a strange and uncomfortable moment, Ludwig did not respond.

"It's been difficult. The adjustment. I was fighting only last year. I feel… lost, without the order. Without the rules and schedules and the constant fear."

Feliciano nodded his understanding, rubbing the pain away from his stiff knee.

"Get changed for bed, Ludwig. You'll need rest for tomorrow, or you'll be groggy and cranky with me all day."

The large German inclined his head, assenting, and Felix couldn't take his eyes away from the rolling of those impressive muscles as he levered himself upright. Of course, the recent bed rest had taken him somewhat out of his condition, but Ludwig made his intentions to continue exercising quite clear.

"_I'll already be dying with regrets,"_ he'd once said, "_I don't want to die fat and ugly as well."_

The Italian tucked him in dutifully, taking advantage of his apparent need for comfort by pressing a dry kiss to his forehead.

This night was the first of many in which Ludwig suffered nightmares.

* * *

><p>The fatigue left him bedridden for a week, Feliciano rubbing out the soreness in his body almost daily, though nothing seemed to alleviate it for long. The Italian drew him hot baths and helped him in; his face always grew warm from the steam, he was sure.<p>

"I am sorry, Felix. I am ashamed of my weakness as of late."

"Ve, Ludwig, it's no problem at all. I'm glad to be of help."

He tipped Ludwig's head back carefully, rinsing the shampoo from his hair with light scratches against his scalp. The German sighed contentedly, eyes nearly falling shut.

"Relax, Ludwig. I'll call a doctor today."

"Call Kiku. He should know better than anyone. I left the number in the kitchen."

Feliciano nodded dutifully, drying hands on the bath towel and leaving Ludwig to soak. The subsequent conversation proved the most difficult of his life.

"Father Kleinsorge hasn't been feeling well, Dr. Honda."

"You say he sick?"

"Yes, his body is weak."

"If broody, compress with rag."

"No, his body. His muscles. He's had bad dreams, too."

Many longs minutes later, the two seemed to have found the same page.

"Bad dream can be rargely psychosomatic lesponse. Prease give him comfort."

"Ah, yes, thank you Dr. Honda. Glad to know it isn't more serious_. Auf wiedersehen._"

Ludwig peered up through the steam, smoothing a palm across his wet hair.

"Any luck?"

Felix cast him a wry look and opened the towel length-wise, a silent signal for Ludwig to come out of the bath. He rubbed his skin briskly with the cloth, wanting to stave off the chill from the moisture. Before Ludwig could protest, he snatched up the comb from the sink and smoothed his wet hair back with it, heels lifting from the tiles.

"Ah, _danke._ What did Kiku say?"

"More rest, so off to bed with you! I'll be keeping you there until you feel better, Ludwig. Don't you dare move. Stay here while I fetch your clothes."

"What are you, my wife?"

"Marry me and save us the trouble of pretending," he jested back, tongue peeking out from between his teeth. Ludwig rubbed the towel across his head in silent retaliation, causing most of his hair to ruffle and hang wetly over his forehead. Feliciano hurried out, realizing he hadn't ever seen his hair that way. He was unsure of his capacity to deal with it. He had enough trouble keeping his eyes above chest-level in the first place.

Germany was difficult for that reason, he thought, assembling a set of casual clothes for Ludwig. In Italy, everyone was so affectionate and comfortable with each other; bodies were beautiful, kisses were freely given. He missed the open love of Venice, and to some extent, the repressed nature of Germans suffocated him. Ludwig would often grow irritable when touched too often, much to Feliciano's misery. Come to think of it, he'd never seen more than a couple holding hands in Hamburg, let alone kiss or hug. The thought saddened him deeply, made his heart sick for home. Though he knew he couldn't go back; he would have to face Lovino.

"Felix, you are miserable again. I can tell."

"Ve, excuse me, Ludwig. I don't mean to sadden you."

Feliciano handed him the set of clothes article by article, sure to keep his eyes on the still, soapy water in the tub.

"I didn't say that," he replied, sounding irked at the suggestion. "It's just that you're a _dummkopf_ for trying to repress yourself here. You're Italian; I'm Ludwig. What should you have to worry about?"

"Ve~ I suppose you're right. I'm only a little homesick. I haven't been to Venice since before Ardennes. That and _mi fratello_ would give me a cold welcome home," he explained, beginning to button Ludwig's shirt from the bottom. "Mostly I miss _Italia_. Everyone was so kind."

"I've never been. How do you mean 'kind'? Didn't Gilbert spend extra time conversing with you at the door when you first came?"

Feliciano struggled briefly with the button at the lower margin of his ribs.

"Si, he did. But in Italy, we greet with kisses and hugs and laughter, and strangers are only friends we haven't made."

Ludwig looked vaguely scandalized.

"You kiss? Everyone?"

"No, no, only our friends and family. Silly Ludwig," he grinned, pulling his hands away with three buttons to go. Ludwig cast him an irritated look and did two more to cover the top of his chest.

"We're friends now, aren't we Felix? We don't have to kiss, do we?"

"Only if you want to," he offered, undoing the second to last button once more.

"It's not on the mouth, is it?"

"Not always. Mostly we go—" he began, arching up on his toes. "Like, ah. This. Um."

Ludwig leveled an uninterested stare at his swaying, failing to understand.

"Ah, um. Kiss. On both cheeks."

The German sighed briefly before leaning down and pressing warm lips to either side of Feliciano's face. His kisses made soft, humiliating sounds against the heated cheeks. He was surprised to find Feliciano looking displeased as he pulled back.

"_Was._ What is it?"

"You're taller than me."

"_Verdammt,_ Felix! _Das ist_ not important!"

He ran an exasperated hand through his hair, turning his head away from the Italian for a moment.

"You are easily the most confusing individual I have ever met," he said. Felix whimpered softly.

'_But you are also the best friend I have ever had.' _

* * *

><p>He saw the scorched earth beneath his feet, every step of his bare heels sending dull shocks of pain throughout his entire skeleton. The light in the distance made him feel weak when he first saw it, and now his energy only drained faster. At first he thought they had bombed only the conference hall at the edge of town, but as he walked through the desolate city streets, he saw the damage was far worse. Dead and dying lay by the roadside, mangled with burns and debilitating mutilation from shrapnel. He would later see that the first mile from the center of town was reduced to carbon powder, and that impenetrable clay structures had melted from the heat. The heavy desk in his apartments had turned into splinters, but the bamboo paper briefcase underneath had not even tipped over. Everyone was so thirsty. They called for water endlessly as he passed by, moaning the word in hoarse, pained voices. Some walked with their burned arms outstretched, the flesh slipping loosely from their muscles. He'd seen a group of guards with their eyes melted from looking at the explosion. He felt guilty for seeing, walking, speaking; guilty for having no burns and no wounds. Only this penetrating weakness plagued him, and he knew it would for the rest of his life. A woman by the side of the road grasped at his ankle, half her face a mess of red flesh.<p>

"_Mizu,"_ she whispered.

"_I have no water,"_ he replied. "_And the wells aren't safe to drink anymore."_

"_Mizu,"_ moaned another wounded, and soon the chorus began anew, chanting, tortured whispers filling his ears. "_We need water, please. Mizu."_

His eyes opened without seeing, his chest too heavy for breath.

'_You're still dreaming,_' he thought. '_You must wake up.'_

His breath came in a quick rush, prompting a series of choking coughs as he sat up in bed, cold droplets of sweat rolling with the motion. The sheets were soaked in terror. His leg throbbed.

"Ludwig?"

There, in the doorway, was the little Italian in sleep shorts. He was in Germany; his father's house. No more war.

"Yes, Felix. Sorry to wake you."

"No, actually. It's just that uh, my room became… well, I tried the extra blankets but…"

"Yes, I see. Please help me change the bedding first."

He knew that room was subject to severe drafts, and it had become unbearably cold many times during his childhood. The more practical option might have been the living room, where the furnace smoldered, but Ludwig wouldn't question him. Frankly, he didn't think he could go back to sleep without someone there to help him determine dream from reality. Feliciano returned with fresh bedding and together they stripped the sweaty sheets. The Italian made himself comfortable immediately, smiling up from beneath the covers.

"You could at least wear proper clothes in my bed," Ludwig admonished, ignoring the fact that he, too, wore only underwear. Feliciano only laughed softly, squirming underneath the blankets. The German suppressed the sudden flutter in his chest, and the surreal sensation the entire situation brought on. He'd never slept with someone. There had been war time quarters, of course, but never like this. Never voluntary.

"Ve, Ludwig. Stop standing there and come to bed," Felix said, rolling over to face him. He folded back the covers in invitation, and the picture of Feliciano inviting him to bed set an odd pace to his blood. He climbed in carefully, adjusting his personal boundaries to give the Italian space. Feliciano rolled to face him anyway, cheek brushing against his arm.

"Dr. Honda said to comfort you when you have bad dreams," he explained quietly, shuffling in closer. Ludwig sighed.

"That doesn't mean we have to _cuddle_."

"Ludwig doesn't want to cuddle?" he asked, mock-heartbreak straining his voice. The German sighed something that sounded suspiciously like 'Italians'.

"Do what you wish."

Feliciano sat up briefly to draw the curtains; he sealed out the moonlight as though ashamed of what it revealed. His careful fingers feathered Ludwig's hair from his face as though it was a shame to hide it.

"Felix?"

"Nothing. Please rest."

* * *

><p>He awoke to the sounds of hushed Italian conversation. Down the hall, he thought, where the telephone sat on the kitchen counter. The covers were upturned beside him. Ludwig's knee obeyed as he drew himself out of bed and down the hall, not bothering to clothe himself fully just yet.<p>

"_Lovino, per pavore."_

The voice on the other end chattered fiercely for a few minutes. Feliciano raised his eyebrows to greet Ludwig, who sent him an earnest and questioning look. The Italian held up a finger and then drew it to his lips.

"_Lovino, non posso ancora tornato a casa. Madre sarà sconvolto… si. Si… Fratello, non posso. Ho una casa qui." _

With the last sentence he sent a meaningful glance to Ludwig. The German listened quietly, allowing Feliciano's lilting mother language to envelope him. He'd never heard Italian spoken before; incarnated through Feliciano, he found it exceptionally beautiful. The voice on the other line grew irate and harsh, prompting a wince from Feliciano. He thumbed a straight bit of his hair nervously, biting his lip.

"_Lo semplicemente non posso. Devo andare. Ti amo, fratello." _

He hung up the phone, pacing nervously to the doorway where Ludwig stood, baffled.

"Sorry about that. Ve, my brother Lovino called. It was kind of important."

"Not a problem. Is everything alright?"

"Ah, yes. I've worked it out. Hey, you never said good morning!" he exclaimed, his earlier anxiety vanishing. The Italian grinned up at Ludwig, bouncing on his toes.

"Say hello like I taught you!"

The German rolled his eyes for show, wordlessly leaning down to press a gentle kiss to either of Feliciano's cheeks. He kept his cheek pressed to the Italian's after the second kiss.

"Good morning, Feliciano."

The skin grew hot against his.

"Ah, yes. Good morning, Ludwig."

A tentative kiss, then a quicker one to his opposite cheek. Ludwig couldn't help but note Feliciano's uncommonly timid disposition today, and wondered silently as the Italian began making breakfast in his underwear.

* * *

><p>Gilbert took them riding that afternoon. It seemed that Ludwig had a particular gift for horses as well as dogs, as his ride welcomed him enthusiastically. The three canines ran about, greeting Gilbert and weaving through the long legged cages of horse limbs. Ludwig mounted his spackled beast with practiced excellence, though took care to stirrup his weight with his good leg. Outstretching his hand, he drove the great draft horse carefully forward to the Italian.<p>

"Come. He's quite tame."

"I trust you," Felix replied, taking the German's hand. Their eyes met for that moment, conveying every possible meaning of the Italian's words and shared gesture. Time lurched as Ludwig bolstered his motions with a great pull, nearly pulling the Italian up by his effort alone. He settled in behind Ludwig, clutching his sides for balance as the horse shifted under the new weight. His low chuckle rumbled through Feliciano's chest.

"Hold on, Felix," he advised, reaching back to pull one of the Italian's hands around to his front. Feliciano locked both arms around Ludwig, leaving no space between their torsos and very little between their thighs. He pressed his nose and mouth to Ludwig's shoulder, feeling the muscle motion as he snapped the reigns and the horse shot forward. Gilbert hooted from behind them, mounting his horse quickly. Ludwig gave him no quarter and ordered his mount faster, laughing into the wind as Gilbert shouted. They cleared the old farm field quickly, staccato canter clashing to Feliciano's ears as Gilbert overtook them at a true gallop, for his horse bore less weight. Feliciano had buried his entire face in Ludwig's firm back, but looked up as he felt the animal slow.

"We're approaching the trail," Ludwig said, casting a sidelong glance at the auburn hair behind him. A chin rested over his shoulder, breath on his neck. "We rode here as children. It's beautiful."

An old fence gave way to untamed woodland and rising hills, the skyline broken by endless treetops. The sky remained a cool gray above them, though the sun burst through where the layers thinned in bright white patches. "It won't rain today," Ludwig assured him, leading his horse over the first rocky threshold to the trail. The canopy consumed them now, shattering light into cool greens and grove shade as the spicy scent of earth and wet leaves filled Feliciano's nose. He felt a certain kind of secrecy here, knew the intimacy this place held for the brothers. He was a guest to their childhood hideaway, a trespasser on the wilderness where these Germans belonged.

"Thank you," he said, hoping his breath would carry to Ludwig's ear. A large, warm hand covered his for a brief moment, pressing it into Ludwig's muscled abdomen. He shivered.

"You aren't cold, are you?"

"No, thanks."

"Hey! I know you're seeing to your date and all that, but this next part might be too steep for two," Gilbert called, already above them where the trail crisscrossed up the hill. The German grunted once before dismounting, pulling the reins down with him. Felix slid forward in the saddle, carefully lacing his fingers in the coarse mane before him.

"Gilbert," Ludwig warned, leading his horse forward through the trail. Sure enough, the animal stumbled over the exposed roots and slipped slightly on the incline, but Ludwig coaxed him through well enough. Felix had leaned forward to hug the broad neck, afraid of slipping backwards. He shot upright when Ludwig slid behind him, grasping the reigns from under his arms.

"Ludwig! It's scary being in front!"

"Deal with it. You're smaller and you fit better up front. Besides, I can't have you cowering into my back and missing the view, Felix," he taunted, caging the unsteady boy in his arms. It felt like he was holding a little bird or a lithe kitten; Feliciano looked so small and delicate inside his strapping arms and chest. One of his fine-fingered hands came up to brace against Ludwig's bicep as though it were a rail. _'That's right_,' he thought. '_Barely nineteen_.' The hill grew steeper, prompting the pair to lean forward against the tilt; the entirety of Felix pressed up against him, warm against the chill.

"Ve~! Ludwig, it's so beautiful up here!"

His silky hair tickled and feathered against Ludwig's chin and mouth, and he staunchly resisted burying his nose in it despite the warm, rich scent that teased his nostrils.

"You haven't worn your vestments since the other day," he mused quietly.

"There's no need to pretend in front of you, Felix," the German answered, puzzled.

"Si, that's happy."

Ludwig breathed a chuckle, knowing it would rush out against the boy's hair. Suddenly, he found Gilbert waiting before him, his horse grazing off to the side. The look in his brother's eyes pinned him.

"_Bruder_, was? What is it?"

The silver-haired man drew his horse up closer, making use of the wider trail to walk the pair of animals side by side.

"I was visited the other day, Ludwig."

"_Gott_, no. Gilbert, don't say things like that."

Feliciano pretended not to hear by nestling his head into the crook of Ludwig's shoulder. Gilbert contained his voice to a harsh whisper.

"My family fled. They live where the corn poppies grow, do you understand?"

"Gilbert… yes, I understand."

"They'll come to visit you next. Take care of that old trunk before then."

At this, Feliciano couldn't help but look up,

"Will Ludwig be in trouble?"

"Not if he's smart," Gilbert replied, snapping up his reigns and taking the lead once more.

"Ve, Ludwig," Feliciano murmured, resting back against his broad chest. "Will I still be able to live with you?"

"Live with me," the German repeated, sounding dazed. "You live with me. Yes. I believe so."

"That's happy too," he said simply, pillowing his head against Ludwig's great shoulder once more. They rode in silence, interrupted only by Gilbert's observations and the calls of wilderness. He put a drowsy Feliciano in his bed upon arriving home, promising a large breakfast to make up for missing dinner. Ludwig stayed up another two hours, dragging something heavy from the attic and digging quickly and neatly in the soft garden earth behind the house. He washed his face and hands before coming to bed, taking extra care to clean the grit from his nails.

Feliciano didn't deserve to be touched by unclean hands.

* * *

><p>His leg felt marvelous the next morning, his muscles pleasantly worn, and he rose with the sun as habit dictated. The Italian snoozed blissfully beside him, having clung to his left arm during the night and substituted it for a pillow. Ludwig extracted himself carefully and bathed quickly, noting the exceptional sunshine through the bedroom curtains. Figuring Feliciano would like to go outside, he dressed in a simple t-shirt and his old workman's Levis, now a bit too tight on his muscled thighs but still too long, just as they had been so many years ago. He cuffed them near the bottom, remembering when the cloth draped loosely over his slender, adolescent form. His father had fussed over him, tempting him with extra food while his height increased daily and his width remained the same. The smell of fresh market rolls brought back childhood nostalgia and the scent of breakfast wurst only intensified it. He set out the jams and made eggs before setting a pot of coffee to brew.<p>

"Feliciano, good morning," he said, stepping softly into his bedroom. The Italian had captured a wayward pillow, an arm and a leg draped over it simultaneously. His head lolled oddly to the other side, hair clinging to the pillow and his forehead in a wild display. Carefully, Ludwig bent over the sleeping form, one knee and two palms on the mattress. Kiss, and another, softly, but those wide coffee eyes fluttered open at the first touch.

"You said hello how I taught you. That's happy," he mumbled, back arching helplessly in a stretch. Ludwig extracted the pillow, fluffed it, and replaced it, reminding Feliciano to straighten the sheets afterwards. "Ludwig, you can't take that away and not replace it." Two slender arms found his torso, tugging him gently over onto the mattress. Feliciano found a new comfort in the soft cloth of his shirt and the firm warmth of his chest beneath it. "Better," he mumbled, nuzzling sleepily into the clean scent and warmth of Ludwig.

"Ah, Felix. I've already made breakfast," he coaxed, fighting the heat that rose to his cheeks.

"Give me five minutes. I want this in case… in case we have guests today."

The utter simplicity of sentiment shocked the German. He knew Feliciano had no idea who the 'guests' were, and he hoped he would never have to find out. His arms remained lax, not holding the boy in return, but he accepted the cuddles for precisely five minutes, watching the fine, round slope of his nose and brow and the fluttering of delicate eyelashes against his chest.

"It's a lovely day, Feliciano. I thought we would go outside. I've never shown you the property," he said, daring to pet over the soft mess of caramel hair just once. This coaxed the Italian to rouse himself, eyes glittering with excitement.

"Wait for me to bathe after breakfast, ve! I want to go outside with Ludwig~!"

He seemed doubly delighted at the breakfast spread Ludwig had laid out, and ate heartily to compensate for last night's missed supper. Ludwig did not scold him for taking a meal in his underwear, which seemed to further improve his mood. They exited the house together after Feliciano's bath, Ludwig at last unlocking the old kitchen door; the same door once remained open during summer, where his father watched him and Gilbert play from the dining room. Feliciano bounded out into the grass and sunlight, somehow seeking out every buried childhood treasure Ludwig had long abandoned in the yard.

"Ve! Football! Ludwig, play with me!"

The ball rushed towards him before he could refuse, and after instinctually kicking it away, the unofficial match began. The Italian proved to have far greater agility, but Ludwig had more forethought to predict his motions and intercept. As predicted, his pants became stained with grass and caked with dirt over the knees. His old injury cooperated, to his great relief, as he actually found a certain enjoyment in playing with Felix. The aforementioned Italian at last ended the match with a gentle tackle, but Ludwig managed to catch his weight, choosing to simply swing him once in the air and set him on his feet. He burst into giggles at this, the absolute picture of happiness in Ludwig's arms.

"Ludwig~! I like to play with Ludwig!"

"Ah, Felix. You've got dirt on your cheek," he said, suddenly embarrassed. He wiped at the smudge with his thumb, satisfied that it vanished so easily. "Would you, ah, like to see the garden?"

"Ve~! May we plant in it today?" he bubbled, looping his arms up around Ludwig's neck. The German distantly realized that he still held the smaller boy by the waist; he couldn't bring himself to move his hands.

"If I can find the old seed stock in the shed, yes."

* * *

><p>The pair sowed all afternoon, knees and palms becoming caked with soil and sweat soaking into shirt collars. Ludwig had attempted to make special rows of flowers by color, but found his effort in vain when Feliciano revealed he had scattered all the floral seeds as he saw fit.<p>

"It'll look like a pretty rainbow, Ludwig! All the colors look better mixed together," he smiled, crinkling a little paper seed pouch to pinch out a new set. The German could forgive him the infraction, particularly with that kind of logic.

"Feliciano, which flower is your favorite?"

The Italian paused, looking thoughtfully at the clouds for a few moments.

"Ve, I like daisies."

"Daisies?" Ludwig questioned, thinking of the delicate little weedy flowers that sprung up amongst the grass. He remembered making chains of them with Gilbert, pulling the thin white petals off to rhymes, plucking a small bunch of them for his first schoolyard crush. Daisies.

"I don't have seeds for daisies. They do pop up everywhere during spring, so it's likely you'll see some."

"I wanted to make a little bed of them for Ludwig, but if they grow everywhere I'll be happy too," he said, positively beaming. "That way I can think of Ludwig whenever I see them."

"Should I feel insulted that you associate me with daisies?" he joked, dampening his embarrassment before it could manifest in his cheeks.

"Daisies remind me of Lovino and mama too," the Italian replied, shaking a single seed in his palm as though it were the center of his whole world. "But mama doesn't grow them anymore, and Lovino pretends to hate flowers."

Somehow it sounded like the greatest tragedy, coming from that delicate frown. Ludwig wished never to see that expression again.

"I'll grow you flowers," he murmured, almost without thinking. The Italian looked up, shocked, before breaking into a shy smile.

"Ve~ Ludwig isn't like mama at all," he laughed. "Mama was so small. She was the best little mama in the world."

Ludwig took a seat on the old painted garden bench, elbows on his knees.

"I'd like to meet her," he said earnestly, softly. "I never knew my mother."

Feliciano sat beside him, feet swaying off the edge slightly.

"I'll bet she was beautiful."

Ludwig's breath caught faintly.

"She was. I'll show you her photograph, if you like."

"I'd like to meet her," the Italian replied, smiling openly up at the blonde.

* * *

><p>Ludwig waited all that afternoon for the knocking, and all that evening and through the night, but it didn't come. He held Feliciano that night, knowing he would release him before morning. For just those hours, he could do as he pleased, and he did.<p>

"_You have your mother's eyes and your father's sense of humor,"_ the Italian had laughed, poking the stern line of Ludwig's cheek as he held the photo. He seemed particularly enamored with the necklace his mother wore, a simple chain that held her wedding ring.

"_Gilbert looks like our old dog,"_ he'd replied, sure to keep his voice as serious as possible. Somehow Feliciano found it hilarious, smothering his sudden giggle in Ludwig's arm. The same pert mouth brushed his collar now, air escaping in a gentle, tickling rush over his skin. He felt so awful for indulging this night. He just wanted this, in case they had guests tomorrow.

The guests did not come that day, or the next, and Ludwig had nearly forgotten about the old trunk in the garden and Gilbert's warning until he saw the daisies. The daises emerged nearly overnight, popping up through the grass to spread their sunny faces skyward. He thought of Feliciano's smile in the pollen every time, and Feliciano's skin when the petals brushed his fingertips. He briefly considered making a chain for the Italian, but reconsidered when Felix tossed three around his neck and one to halo his head just after lunch. It seemed utterly ridiculous until he caught sight of the matching bracelet around his caramel wrist. Ludwig kept the chains until dinner, and secretly pressed them in an old dictionary that evening. He closed the book and heard the knocker fall, replacing the beat his heart had skipped. A sudden trio of barking from the backyard heightened his anxiety.

Feliciano appeared in his room, nearly trembling.

"Ludwig. Don't leave."

He didn't respond, only drew the Italian into a fast embrace before approaching the front door.

"_Ho bisogno di vedere il mio fratello, figlio bastardo di patate."_

Ludwig raised a brow briefly, looking down on the angry, olive face.

"Felix, it's for you."

"_Mi fratello? _Lovino?"

He recognized the relation instantly, but saw no happiness in either face upon meeting. The older brother ('Lovino', he thought) spoke briefly, quickly, his hands fluttering about to embody his evident agitation. Ludwig stood well out of the way of the conversation, simply watching. Every so often Feliciano cast a pleading glance his way. His heart clenched to see the Italian suffer; he couldn't help but speculate as to what Lovino seemed so upset about.

"_Ludwig__è la mia amico. Voglio rimanere con Ludwig. Credo… amore Ludwig."_

At this the elder seemed to deflate, instead rubbing his palm tiredly across his forehead. He looked at Feliciano pleadingly, then at Ludwig with critical curiosity. The German stiffened, arms folded.

"You. Don't treat _mi fratello _bad," he said, addressing Ludwig in stilted German. "Will be badly for you."

"I understand. I will take _buona cura_ of your _fratello._"

He ignored Felix's soft snicker at his poor Italian, but Lovino seemed satisfied at his answer. The older Italian, now placated, spoke again to his brother, jerking a thumb at the blonde.

"Lovino wants to know if he could stay the night. His train leaves tomorrow, and he only came for a brief visit," Feliciano translated sheepishly, though Ludwig suspected the original request was not as polite. He shrugged in response.

"Give him Gilbert's room," he replied, feeling suddenly embarrassed that Feliciano had slept in his room for several days now. The younger Italian translated, guiding his brother down the hall. They spoke for another moment as Feliciano explained the sleeping arrangements, prompting another brief burst of irritation from Lovino.

"_Non avere rapporti sessuali, mentre io sono qui,"_ he said, anger giving way to sneering indifference. Ludwig might have paid money to understand Italian just then, considering the sudden and complete redness of Feliciano's face.

"_Non ci,"_ the younger Italian promised, rubbing at the back of his head. He staunchly avoided looking at Ludwig, who merely looked on curiously. "Ludwig, we should um, get to bed now."

The German strode wordlessly down the hall, feeling incredibly awkward as he let Feliciano into his room under Lovino's watchful eye.

"Good night," he said, offering a little smile.

"_Vaffanculo,"_ the Italian replied, shutting the door to Gilbert's old room. Ludwig simply raised a brow, closing the door to his own room.

"Feliciano?"

The Italian rubbed at his eyes briefly, turning quickly away from his friend.

"Sorry. Lovino didn't mean to impose."

"I'm sure. It's alright."

Ludwig approached carefully, softly, suspecting the slight glimmer on that caramel hand to be tears. He felt the tension drain from him, though his nerves remained frayed and raw from anxiety. Honestly, he was thankful it had only been Lovino instead of the visitors he feared. A quiet sniffle caught his attention.

"Don't cry," he said simply, coming to stand beside Feliciano. The little Italian hid his tears in Ludwig's shirt, hands curling into the fabric. Ludwig pressed one palm between his shoulder blades, the fingers of his other hand smoothing through that silky sienna hair. A soft, shaking sob escaped the boy, prompting a frown from Ludwig. "Feliciano," he soothed, quickly and carefully reaching down to scoop up his lithe frame, as one might hold a bride. The German brought them both to the bed, settling in with the tearful teen on his lap. "You don't have to say if you don't want to."

"No, you deserve to hear," he whispered, finding his voice hoarse with sorrow. Ludwig rubbed his back gently, still binding him close in the loop of his arms. "Lovino wants me to come back to Italy. He was upset enough that I joined the fascist party, and even more for serving in the military. I thought forever that he wouldn't forgive me. I know he loves me, but he was so mad the day I left. We haven't talked in years. I guess he figured that since the war is over I don't have any reasons to stay in Germany. Except that, since January, I do."

"I'm sorry. If I'm holding you back—"

"I don't want to go. It's my choice, Ludwig. I explained to him already. I am home."

"Come here."

Feliciano looked up, a fresh tear rolling over his cheek. Ludwig caught it on his lips, silently enjoying the soft squeak of surprise his action garnered. "You need rest," he said, pressing a gentle kisses to each cheek, forehead, and hair in turn. Distantly, he realized that perhaps even Italian friends did not kiss so much, but he felt that Feliciano could be the exception. He made so many exceptions already, just for him, where he usually made none. Still, if ever asked, he would deny the keen enjoyment derived from doing so. Presently, Feliciano assented quietly to his suggestion, withdrawing to undress. Despite the awkward flutter in his chest, Ludwig did so as well, refusing to contemplate the fact that he was simultaneously undressing for bed with someone else.

"I haven't used my pajamas in days," he joked, hoping to lighten Feliciano's mood. "Ah, it's not a bad thing, though," he amended quickly, seeing a quick frown twist at the Italian's face. "I guess it separates me from the bad times during the war when I had to sleep in clothes."

"I usually sleep naked," the Italian admitted, looking sheepish.

"I never have," Ludwig confessed, turning back the covers quickly to hide his embarrassment. The last thing he needed to discuss with Feliciano before bed was nudity; it would likely be the last thing in his mind before falling asleep and therefore enter into most of his dreams. While he much preferred dreams of Feliciano to war nightmares, he doubted the absence of real-life consequences, particularly when the subject of said dreams slept beside him regularly. The Italian now slid in beside him, shuffling up close, as he did every night.

"You held me the other night," he whispered, bunching the blankets up around his chin. "I'm not mad, I mean. I just think… it would help tonight."

"Oh, um. _Ja,_ of course."

He compressed the little weight of shame now residing in his stomach, instead slipping an arm over Feliciano's waist. The little Italian nudged himself closer, resting partly on top of Ludwig's chest the way he preferred, where breath teased the juncture of his neck and shoulder. His heartbeat thundered to his ears, prompting paranoia that Feliciano could hear his pulse through his skin, and know. There was very little he could hide, he'd learned. Where his life had been largely self-contained, Felix threw open the window, let in the air and the light and the joy. He'd stirred the dust away from his old memories, unlocked the old doors and dragged him out into the sun of his smile. The phone interrupted his musings now, inducing an irritated sigh from the German.

"Excuse me," he told Felix, stroking his head once before removing himself from the room. Feliciano blinked up sleepily at his retreating form, brows furrowing at the lateness of the call. Murmurs floated back from the hall, small syllables and broken sibilance. It lasted a long minute for Felix, but Ludwig swore he'd never had a shorter phone call in his life.

"Feliciano, you must listen carefully," he said, crawling up onto the bed urgently. The Italian straightened and sat up, meeting those frightened blue eyes. "They've taken Gilbert. His family is safe. They are coming here next. Please go home with Lovino for the time being."

"Taken him? Where, why? Ludwig, this is my home."

"Felix. Please. If they take you-" he began, strangling the thought before it could affect him. "You don't have anything to do with it, and I don't want them to think you do. You're… innocent."

Feliciano softened, lips falling open slightly at the hidden sentiment.

"I worked for Mussolini, remember? I'm hardly blameless."

"You don't deserve the same as I. It's been more than a year since the Fuhrer took his life to escape the punishment. They've killed several men already, and sentenced minor officers, Gilbert being one of them. He's in Nuremburg, Felix. Let us pray they do not give him death. Please, quickly, my old jacket and the cross."

"The Jacket is in Gilbert's closet. The cross…" he started, hand coming up to his neck, fingers clutching the steel. "The cross is from you."

"I'll give you something better, please. You'll kill the both of us by keeping it."

"Promise you won't forget."

"I promise," he replied quickly, reaching to the back of Feliciano's neck to unfasten the clasp. The Italian met his eyes, looking miserably unconvinced of his conviction. "I promise," he said again, softer, thumb finding the small clip and lips finding Feliciano's. The cross fell to the mattress, abandoned, as the kiss stretched on, merely a chaste, electric press. "Promise," he insisted softly, brushing the word against the other's lips. Feliciano's eyes had closed, almost as though he feared that opening them would reveal that it wasn't Ludwig kissing him, or that they never had. "Look at me."

Blue and bronze, skin to skin.

"_Ich liebe dich_. I'll come to find you."

Feliciano nodded quietly, telling him in hushed tones about his mother's house in Venice.

"I'll remember. Daisies in the window-box. Let's help you pack for tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Ludwig crept out of the house long after either Italian had succumbed to sleep. He kept the old jacket around his shoulders and the cold cross in one fist. It no longer warmed to his skin. The pasture looked stark and empty amongst the thick Germanic forests, cold in the moonlight. The small spade bit at the hard earth, dried and stubborn from years of disuse. Digging proved difficult and strenuous, and the darkness impaired his efforts further. It felt like hours before the coat and cross at last rested underground, covered by a sparse heap of dried grass, to lessen the notable fresh dirt patch. It might have been a squirrel's cache. He limped home by moonset, sure to clean his boots well before setting them neatly on the landing. The chill clung to his skin, and the heat from the furnace only burned. He did not return to bed, but made sure to leave a brief note for Feliciano to take with him before leaving once more, intending to roam outdoors until the pair of brothers left his home. He returned by eleven, too tired to try to sleep, too numb to feel sorrow. The clerical robes felt unfamiliar once more. His house had grown cold, and his note, while disturbed, remained on the table. He sat on the couch for endless hours until the knocking came. There was nothing left to hide.<p>

* * *

><p>July 28th, 1951 proved to be an unbearably hot day for Venice. A man, now the same age as Christ, walked briskly by the fountain, his pace abnormally quick compared to the relaxed stroll of the citizens around him. He watched the children splash about, remembering. Under one strong arm he held a book, and at first glance one might think it a bible. In his other hand, a fine silver chain dangled from between his fingers, the talisman concealed by his palm. His dress was not unusual, only a light sweater and summer slacks, but he garnered attention for his tall, strong build and pale skin and hair. He left the main streets quickly, passing a particular fountain with specific deliberation, as though recalling directions. The cobbled streets gave way to smaller avenues, quieter suburbs with closely-packed houses. He bypassed the houses on the first street quickly, completing a precise right turn at the end of the boulevard. Here he slowed, reading nameplates carefully, eyes flitting up to the balcony windows every now and then. At last he stopped, staring with disbelief at the window-box of one particular house, where tender daisies bobbed happily in the faint breeze. Almost as if they were welcoming him with pollen smiles. He checked the nameplate twice, mouthing the last name as though he were savoring the feel of it.<p>

Of all the horrifying times in his life, all the pre- and post-battle anxiety, his nerves chose this time to reduce him to trembles and clammy palms. He forced his shaking legs to carry him to the door, forced his sweating hand to lift the knocker thrice.

"_Vi sono infine arrivato per mio fratello, figlio bastardo di patate?" _

"Lovino, please tell me Feliciano is home."

"_È per te, fratello!"_

He looked once again into those caramel eyes, now belonging to a twenty-four year old.

"Feliciano," he said, leaning forward carefully. A kiss to each cheek, slowly, and a hesitant press to his soft lips, simply because he couldn't resist the urge. Feliciano's arms wound up around his neck, lips crushing gently against his, sparking an old, familiar heat. The German held him in return, pressing his slightly taller form ever closer.

"You greeted me the way I taught you," he whispered, tears threatening to spill.

"I promised, didn't I?"

The Italian nodded, speech evading him for shock and joy. He accepted the book curiously, wondering why Ludwig would give him a dictionary until he saw a single dry petal peek from the pages. A daisy chain, one that once haloed the golden crown before him, pressed with utter care to be forever preserved. The sentiment so distracted him that he hardly noticed the new, warm weight against his collar. "You once said this was beautiful. It belonged to my mother."

There, on a fine silver chain, a simple pewter band. Just as Ludwig's mother had in 1917, so Feliciano kissed his love, responding to that old statement from so long ago.

"_Anche io vi amo,_ Ludwig."


End file.
